


Been Taught but Never Learned

by larkscape



Series: Tell Me How to Break This Fever [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Oral Fixation, Otabek Altin Has An Oral Fixation, Otabek Altin Is Very Very Thirsty, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Sexual Tension, Welcome to the Madness (Yuri!!! on Ice), the glove biting thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 01:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11369811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkscape/pseuds/larkscape
Summary: Yuri watched Victor joining Katsuki on the ice for a surprise pair skate with murder in his eyes.“Otabek! During my exhibition skate, join me on the ice. We’ll do something even more intense than those two!” Yuri dragged him in by the shirt until their foreheads touched. “You said you wanted me to blow their minds, right? Are you in or are you out?”Otabek didn’t even need to think about it.“We’re friends, right? Then there’s only one answer.”Otabek Altin was going to strip that glove off with histeeth.





	Been Taught but Never Learned

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Бах!..](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16038443) by [Menada_Vox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menada_Vox/pseuds/Menada_Vox)



> Follows immediately from the end of the Welcome to the Madness bonus manga.

 

_Yuri watched Victor joining Katsuki on the ice for a surprise pair skate with murder in his eyes._

_“Otabek! During my exhibition skate, join me on the ice. We’ll do something even more intense than those two!” Yuri dragged him in by the shirt until their foreheads touched. “You said you wanted me to blow their minds, right? Are you in or are you out?”_

_Otabek didn’t even need to think about it._

_“We’re friends, right? Then there’s only one answer.”_

 

Less than two minutes before he took to the ice, Yuri turned to Otabek with a predatory smile, all heat and threat.

“I’ve got it. You can take my gloves off, and then shoot me at the end. It’ll be _great.”_

“Shoot you?”

“Yeah. You know, with a finger gun, like you did at the club.” Yuri demonstrated. “Bang. I’ll collapse on the ice at the end and you’ll stand there looking smug about it. They won’t know what hit them.”

A slow smile tipped the corners of Otabek’s mouth.

They hadn't rehearsed. It didn't matter. Yuri was going to blow everyone away and Otabek would help him do it; whatever Yuri needed, Otabek would give him, up to and including improvising on the ice in front of an international event-sized crowd.

Everything about the situation was unreal. After five years of waiting and planning, after all the build-up in his head, here he was: sitting at the Grand Prix Final with Yuri Plisetsky, the Ice Tiger of Russia, the boy with the soldier’s eyes, who had for some unknowable reason accepted Otabek’s offer of friendship and who was now scheming with him to upstage two of the greatest skaters in the sport. It was like a fever dream. Otabek hoped he never woke up.

When Katsuki and Victor stepped off the rink moments later, Yuri grinned at him again, wolfishly self-assured, and skated out to the center under the gleam of the spotlights. The music started.

Otabek stayed where he was to watch for a bit — his thoughts still stuttered to a halt at that flirty shoulder shrug, the dip of the jacket, no matter that he’d seen Yuri practice it twenty times last night as he built the choreography, and he wanted to drink it in again. (Also, he wanted to keep a chair under himself just in case Yuri distracted him into tripping over his own skates. Again.) He waited until Yuri was spinning at the far end of the rink, a safe distance, then stepped onto the ice and settled back against the barrier to await his cue.

He’d always loved watching Yuri skate, ever since he first saw him at Yakov Feltsman’s training camp. As soon as he’d found a quiet moment to himself after that first day’s drills, he'd pulled up YouTube and hunted down every video he could find of Yuri's performances. Yuri’s competitive career was in its early days then and most of the results were phone footage of small regional competitions, but even through the shoddy camerawork, Yuri’s talent shone clear. He skated like a sword fight with gravity: graceful, vicious, relentlessly denying the the pull of the earth.

Otabek was captivated. He wanted to skate like that.

Of course, his failure in ballet meant that he could never skate quite like that, but Yuri was his inspiration from that day forward. Otabek maintained an ever-growing collection of Yuri’s skating videos, all with play counts far higher than he liked to admit, and if recently he hadn’t always watched for the _artistry_ , well. That was just between him and his computer.

Seeing Yuri now, though, right there on the ice in front of him — not over the boards or across the stands like earlier in the week but somehow intimate despite the audience, just the two of them sharing the rink, after meeting at the club and talking on the Barcelona shoreline and working through Yuri’s new routine long past when the clock ticked over into the next day—

Yes, Yuri was inspiring in far more than just the artistic sense.

Especially with the casually sensual way he stripped the jacket off his shoulders and tossed it across the ice; that had to be illegal in at least twelve countries. He could get arrested for that level of flirtatiousness.

And now Otabek was thinking about Yuri and handcuffs.

That was, perhaps, not the best idea he’d ever had while wearing thin pants in front of a crowd.

He tucked his elbows over the rink boards, trying to stifle some alarmingly enticing mental images, and found himself instead staring at the tease of Yuri’s skin through the holes sliced in that damn shirt. God, it was almost enough to make him regret helping Yuri pick it out — every glimpse of the long line of Yuri’s spine, every flash of bare skin and muscle under the spotlights, set a tingle in his fingers and a coil of frustrated yearning in his chest.

Why did Yuri have to skate in the most provocative shirt ever created? It had taken Otabek five years to work up to his grand gesture of friendship on Friday. He didn't want to push his luck with ill-timed advances. Honestly, he was still a little shocked that Yuri had taken his hand so readily.

Yet here he was, on the ice during Yuri’s exhibition program, ready to— do what, exactly? Take off his gloves, Yuri said. Improvise.

A hurricane storming across the ice, that was Yuri: fluid crossovers, effortless mid-air splits, violent and seductive at once. Otabek wished he could plant his hands on Yuri’s waist, keep him still for a moment so he could map his edges, pinpoint all the maddening pieces of him and fit them together in a way that made sense instead of this jumble of impudence and temptation and heavy eyeshadow. Maybe he _should_ think about handcuffs, after all.

Yuri skated toward Otabek and cut to a stop as the music changed, then ripped off his sunglasses and launched them into the crowd. His green eyes shone fierce and hungry against his makeup, and Otabek’s mind seized up like a jammed gear, all his thoughts grinding to a halt under the intensity of Yuri’s gaze. He was desperately glad for the rink wall under his arms; without it he might crumple to the ice.

He couldn’t be imagining this. Shit, he _hoped_ he wasn’t imagining this. Yuri looked like he wanted to _eat_ him.

Drums crashed and guitar growled over the soundsystem as someone in the stands caught Yuri’s sunglasses, but Otabek barely heard any of it, not the music, not the screaming of the fans — all his awareness was trapped by Yuri’s laser-focused stare.

Pushing his luck felt like a better and better idea with each passing heartbeat.

This moment right here, this was the improvisation, but they both moved like their very thoughts were shared, two bodies propelled by the same impulse. Yuri’s arm shot out and Otabek’s rose to meet it. Their hands curled around each other as if magnetized. Their eyes locked. God, the look of daring provocation on Yuri’s face was the stuff of dreams, and Otabek knew it was a bad idea to hope but he couldn't remember why.

When Yuri twisted away, his glove practically melted off in Otabek’s grasp. Otabek tossed it behind himself, staring ravenously at the spread of Yuri’s shoulders. He wanted to strip Yuri of a lot more than just his gloves — starting with that shirt. It was more holes than fabric, anyway; tearing it off his body would be so satisfying, like ripping through wrapping paper to reveal a long-awaited gift.

Yuri turned back with a flourish of his arm. _Do it,_ his eyes seemed to say, lined with black and hot as molten iron. _You know you want to. I want you to._

A soundless, burning understanding passed between them.

Time slowed. Every motion felt inevitable. Yuri hardly started to lift his other hand before Otabek was leaning forward, his mouth already falling open.

He was going to strip that glove off with his _teeth._ Ha. ‘Blow them away,’ indeed.

The exchange took hardly the length of a thought, but everything about the moment felt honey-thick, heavy and rich and potent. Otabek watched Yuri's hand rise in slow motion, those long fingers stretching toward his face, and felt the liquid want suffusing his body crystalize into need.

He wrapped his mouth around Yuri's finger. It took every scrap of his willpower to refrain from sucking on it. Instead, he caught the hem of the glove behind his teeth and bit down, just hard enough that when Yuri's hand slipped away again, the glove remained. The satiny fabric held the heat from Yuri's skin as it settled against Otabek’s lips like a caress and he imagined Yuri’s fingers there instead, pressing down, pushing in.

Yuri spun away; time restarted. The roar of the music and the crowd reasserted itself in Otabek’s ears, and his hand floated up to the glove still held in his mouth. He couldn’t look away. He didn’t care about the audience, didn’t care where the glove dropped to — he only had eyes for Yuri, darting across the ice with his arms sweeping wide. Yuri looped around the far end of the rink and sank into a slide that made his shirt ride all the way up his chest, his arms trailing elegantly behind him, his lifted chest emphasizing the way his nipples peaked in the cold air.

Otabek wanted to bite along the crest of his ribs. All that naked skin cried out for him to kiss bruises into it. Did Yuri have any idea how much this was affecting him?

He wanted Yuri’s fingers in his mouth again.

The next few moments passed him in a blur; he was caught up in imagining the noises Yuri would make if Otabek captured his hand properly and wrapped his tongue around his fingers, licked like he was licking something else. Envisioning what Yuri would do, the thrash of his limbs and the toss of his hair, if Otabek pinned him down to a hotel mattress, bared him piece by piece with lips and teeth and found all his tender places. If Otabek sussed out the spot where Yuri hid the siren song drawing him in and teased it free until Yuri was writhing under his mouth, as wordless and overwhelmed as Otabek himself was.

The crack of blades on ice caught Otabek by surprise, jolting him from his distraction, even though he knew to expect Yuri's jump combination — and oh, that meant the program was almost over. With iron will, he pushed away his reckless thoughts and focused on the current moment.

He already knew, without a word exchanged between them, the exact point in the music when Yuri wanted to be shot: right on the beat of the last yowl of vocals. It was the only choice, the best choice. The perfect rockstar moment.

Otabek readied his hand like a gun and took aim. Waited through the spin, and… there.

He fired at Yuri — _‘Bang,’_ Yuri demonstrated in his mind’s eye, rinkside with a smirk on his face, and last night, too, at the club where Yuri had appeared like a hallucination against the back wall, a phantasm in a purple jacket demanding a song, _‘bang,’_ always with that smirk — and Otabek was a skater and a DJ and his timing was exact. He watched with satisfaction as Yuri collapsed to the ice in an elegant cascade.

Perfect.

The cheers of the crowd rose over the fading music. Otabek paid them no heed.

This was his doing: Yuri, sprawled alluringly across the center of the rink, shot down by Otabek himself. He was consumed by the sight. He wanted to run his tongue over the lines of muscle on Yuri’s exposed stomach; everything in him itched to dig his fingers into the waistband of those pants and drag them down, to suck Yuri off right there in the middle of the rink with Yuri’s fingers pulling deliciously at his hair.

He steeled his spine and fought to remain still. Now was not the time. Maybe never. All his reservations flooded back to him, reminding him just what a foolish idea it was to entertain such fantasies. Otabek shouldn’t — _wouldn’t_ — expect anything more than the friendship he’d already been gifted. Sure, Yuri’s expression when Otabek stripped off his gloves was positively obscene, but that was in the heat of performance; nothing said that it would carry outside the rink, out of the lights and away from the weighty thrill of the crowd.

Yuri was a performer, after all. Stirring emotion in the audience was part and parcel of being a skater, broken down into points and categories and judged against a standard, with numerical results broadcast for all the world to see. There was no telling if Yuri had meant what his eyes seemed to promise, or if he was even aware of how Otabek felt that promise ignite something unnameable in the core of him. Otabek would simply have to content himself with a mental play-by-play when he was alone in his hotel room that night.

His sheets were going to be a _mess_. He should leave a bigger tip for the housekeeping staff.

The rink lights changed and Yuri picked himself up off the ice, smiling as their eyes met again — and who the hell knew what Otabek’s face betrayed, but whatever Yuri saw there sharpened his grin into something savage, like he knew exactly what was going through Otabek’s head and wanted in on it.

All Otabek’s thoughts of self control evaporated, mud puddles in the desert boiled to nothing by the blistering heat of Yuri’s expression.

That wasn’t obliviousness, like Otabek had half-expected. Hell, that wasn’t even coyness. That was intention; that was the face of someone who knew exactly what effect he had and was enjoying the payoff of a calculated move. That was triumph, plain and simple.

Yuri had _planned_ this. Otabek was in so much trouble.

 


End file.
